


Cutthroat Kitchen

by Severina



Series: Mousecapades [1]
Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Community: getyourwordsout, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-13
Updated: 2016-05-13
Packaged: 2018-06-08 04:30:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6839131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You can do this," he told himself. The John looking back in the mirror looked pretty fucking skeptical. "You've taken down a ton of bad guys," he continued. "You blew up a goddamn subway car and survived. This is a piece of fuckin' cake."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cutthroat Kitchen

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ's getyourwordsout bingo for this photo prompt:
> 
>  
> 
> [ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Severina2001/media/gywo%20bingo/02%20kitchen_zpsz89qzxm8.jpg.html)  
> 

John parked the sedan a block away from the restaurant, sat with his hands wrapped around the steering wheel. The ticking of the cooling engine matched the stop-and-start meter of his heart, and he blew out a deep breath before tilting the rear view for a final once-over. He smoothed a hand over his smooth skull. At least that looked good. Couldn't do much about the wrinkles and the laugh lines, and the crow's feet were a lost cause despite Lucy's 'guarantee' about those damn egg whites.

"You can do this," he told himself. The John looking back in the mirror looked pretty fucking skeptical. "You've taken down a ton of bad guys," he continued. "You blew up a goddamn subway car and survived. This is a piece of fuckin' cake."

Mirror-John still didn't look convinced, but the guy walking by on the sidewalk gave him a double-take. John looked away from the mirror and directed his scowl out the side window. "What's the matter," he yelled, "you never seen a guy talkin' to himself before?"

"Peace, brother," the man said. "Whatever it is, I think you can do it too."

John snorted at the thumbs up the guy flashed him before continuing on his way, but strangely the vote of confidence actually helped. He didn't waste any more time thinking about it. Thinking never did anything but get him a fuckload of trouble, anyway. Action was more his thing.

Matt was already waiting outside the restaurant when he strolled up from the north, the edge of a thumbnail caught between the kid's teeth and one leg jittering as he leaned against the plate glass. Which, quite frankly, also helped. If someone else was going to be the nervous one then he _had_ to be the calm one. It was a whole yin and yang thing. 

"Hey, kid," he called out.

Matt jerked, spinning toward him like a marionette on speed. "Oh. Hey," he said. His lips twitched in a jittery approximation of a smile. "McClane. You're here. Yeah, that's good, 'cause I was starting to think I got the wrong day. I mean, I wrote it down, but things are still a little… messy? In the new place. So I thought maybe I fucked it up or something, because." He jerked a thumb at the prominent 'Closed' sign in the window, and raised his brows. "But I guess I didn't, because here you are. So." He lifted his fisted hands and wiggled them in the air. "Yay."

"Yay," John repeated dryly. If he'd thought that distance and the whole not-getting-shot-at thing would calm Matt down, he now saw that he was very mistaken. But then, nervous energy was nervous energy, whether it came from being chased by bad guys or going out on a first date. 

Jeeeezus. A first date. 

John gulped and tried to unobtrusively wipe his palms on his slacks.

"So, uh, if the restaurant's closed, then—"

The keys jangled when John shook them in front of the kid's nose. "Claude's running late," he said. "Told me to go on in and get us some drinks. He'll be along shortly."

"The owner of this place trusted you with his keys, huh?" Matt said as the door shut behind him. The hush of the darkened restaurant seemed to swallow his words, and he jerked again, just slightly, when John slid the lock into place. "He's not worried that some terrorist is gonna follow you in here and—"

"What, make off with his deep fryer?" John finished, reaching past him to flick on the lights. "I think we're good, kid."

"I guess so." From the way Matt pushed his hands into his pockets and kept darting looks into the darkened corners of the dining room, John concluded that the kid hadn't taken advantage of the therapist's card he'd left discreetly on the corner of his breakfast tray the day he'd gotten released. And when the kid nearly jumped out of his skin at the rattle of something in the kitchen, he got his confirmation. "I thought you said this place was empty!" Matt squeaked out.

"It is," John answered. The weight of his piece was comforting against his side, though. Therapy's all well and good, but nothing beats the security of a well-oiled SIG. Like the commercials say, he doesn't leave home with it. He started toward the swinging door, trying to keep his voice light. "Probably just a mouse," he said over his shoulder.

* * *

Matt's always prided himself on being observant – you don't catch errors in your coding by ignoring the little shit – and that facet of his personality had magnified itself about twenty-fold since the Fourth. That guy working up on the pole outside the window fiddling with the transformer could actually be some pissed off Gabriel minion out for revenge. The dude selling cut flowers on the corner could totally have an AK-47 shoved into one of those plastic pots. Super cute chick flirting with you over her pad thai? Very possibly the irate sibling of the ultra-ninja that your cop-partner-slash-protector sent to hell in a giant SVU-shaped fireball.

So when John shouldered his way into the kitchen he might have _thought_ he was being subtle. But Matt noted the line of tension at the back of his neck and the way his fingers flicked toward the shoulder holster under his jacket. Which Matt had noticed as soon as John walked up to him on the sidewalk outside. Because _observant_.

He had about two seconds to decide what to do. Option A: run from the restaurant like a bat out of hell. It had its merits (he'd survive) but also its detriments (if it _was_ only a mouse, he'd never be able to live down the cowardice and face McClane again.) Option B involved overturning one of the tables and huddling behind it with his hands over his head, but he's seen the way bullets smash through wood and also, he'd be super annoyed if he stayed and then died without even getting to first base with McClane. Which pretty much only left Option C: go through the doors and face whatever made that noise head-on. 

But he'd be damned if he was going in there empty-handed.

A quick look around netted… absolutely nothing in the way of weapons. What the fuck kind of restaurant doesn't even have a goddamn butter knife out on the table? In desperation he reached for the glass jar that normally held limes and lemons for the drinks and hefted in his palm. It was thick, at least, and might do some damage if he got in a head shot. Which would be all about the timing.

"Shit!"

John's curse was muddled but audible, and that was all it took to spur Matt into action. He hoisted the jar over his head and took the swinging door at a run.

"Aaaaaaah!" His eyes darted quickly between stainless steel counters, rows of gleaming pots and pans, John, endless cupboards and drawers, a walk-in refrigerator as big as his current apartment. The bloodcurdling scream that he'd intended to strike fear into the heart of man and beast dwindled to a pathetic little "Aaaah?" as he skidded to a stop.

John. He whipped his head back to where John stood silently at the counter in time to see one eyebrow make a slow, leisurely ascent. 

He was an idiot.

"So," he said. Trying for casual was really quite difficult when holding a glass jar above the head, and lowering it nonchalantly was no easy task. He ended up plunking it down on the nearest stovetop and vowing to pretend that it just didn't exist. He cleared his throat. "No terrorists then?"

"Screw," John said. Matt squinted to make out the tiny grooved cylinder held between John's thumb and index finger; followed John's jutting chin to the kitchen implement laying on the counter. "Came out of the wall, knocked off the—"

"Ladle," Matt finished. Amid all that gleaming stainless steel it didn't seem like the glass jar should stand out so much, but Matt would swear that it was reflecting the goddamn overhead lights like a beacon. He shifted cagily to the side to block it from John's view, and in doing so got his first non-heart-pounding view of the kitchen. "Yeah, I… wow." 

"So what'd'ya say we go get those drinks, huh kid?"

"Yeah," Matt answered distractedly. He crouched down onto his haunches to grin at his reflection in the oversized cupboard beneath the counter, slanted his head up to John. "So, _Jurassic Park_ , right?"

"Huh?"

"You know, in the movie when the kids have to hide in the kitchen and the velociraptor sees their reflection in the stainless steel and…" He faded out on John's blank look, got to his feet and… yeah, he was pretty sure the expression on his face could be termed 'goggled'. " _Jurassic Park_ ," he repeated slowly. "The movie with the—"

"Dinosaurs, I'm assuming."

"Oh. Oh wow." Matt swiped a hand through his hair. "I thought the music thing was bad, but… I bet you subscribe to Turner Classics, don't you? Have you ever seen a movie that didn't star Steve McQueen or Clint Eastwood? How about something that doesn't include cops or cowboys? Anything made after 1979 ring a bell?"

"Yeah. Cute, kid." John pushed himself away from the counter, letting the screw fall with a tinny _plink_. He leaned over the sink to rinse his hands before turning back. "Nothin' wrong with the classics."

"Nothing wrong with some of them, sure," Matt agreed, following John as he headed back toward the swinging doors and the bank of lights. "I enjoy a good _Westworld_ as much as the next cyborg-going-insane loving fanboy. But there is an entire world of filmmaking excellence out there if you would just… OHMYGOD!"

Matt's mouth gaped open, his quick mind putting it together: John's wet hands plus an electrical surge from the open power box and now John was jittering in place, the current pouring through his body and frying his insides and—

And he was laughing his fool head off.

Matt surged forward himself, curled fist smacking into John's bicep. "YOU ASSHOLE!"

John turned around, still grinning, and rubbed absently at the spot high on his arm where Matt's fist had connected. "I might have seen _Jurassic Park_ after all," he said.

"You… goddamn… I can't even… " Matt shook his head, resisting the urge to push at John's chest in frustration. Experience had already told him that when John planted his feet like that, he might as well try to move an 18-wheeler. He settled for pacing back and forth, flailing his arms. "I could have had a heart attack! Shit like that might be funny in a movie theatre full of stupid kids, but—"

He stumbled and nearly fell when John reached out to snag at his arm, but let John tow him closer. 

"Sorry, kid," John said.

Matt had a ton of experience in hanging on to grudges – he still wasn't talking to his brother after the Yoga Incident of 2005 – but… well, this was John McClane. Maybe he was worth bending a little. He studied the spotless tile, and absently noted that it looked like John had bought new shoes for the occasion. Of their first date. On which he'd already screamed like a banshee and made a fool out of himself _twice_. 

"You scared the fucking shit out of me," he muttered.

"Yeah," John said. "Jesus, kid, your _face_!"

He felt John's chest move against his lowered forehead, and Matt looked up sharply in time to see John struggle to wipe the grin off his face. But when he tried to pull his arm away, he was reminded of all those times on the Fourth when John had grabbed, tugged, pulled or otherwise kept hold of him. When John McClane wanted to keep you close, he kept you close.

"Nah, seriously, I'm sorry," John said again. And he _did_ make a valiant effort to hide the smirk. His fingers curled around Matt's palm, warm and slightly calloused. A thumb brushed lightly against his wrist, and Matt did his best not to shudder. "And Matt, it means a lot that you came rushing in here," John continued. "Not everybody would do that."

Matt flushed, if only because his first two immediate thoughts hadn't involved running in to the kitchen at all. "Yeah, I dunno," he said with a shrug. 

"Especially after a mouse. That thing might have been ten feet tall."

Matt looked up then, pursed his lips. "Asshole."

"You heard of teenage mutant ninja turtles? I got two words for ya, kid—"

Matt shook his head, but couldn't hold back the huff of laughter. "You're a dick, McClane."

"Mutant mouse."

"Keep talkin', man, just keep running your mouth. Just see if I risk my life to save your goddamn skin next time!"

That incredibly versatile eyebrow rose again, and this time the corner of John's mouth quirked along with it. "There's gonna be a next time?"

In answer, Matt let his body slide just a little closer. It put them chest to chest, and all he really had to do was lean in to slant his mouth over John's. His lips were warm and dry, and though they barely moved it seemed like the whole world shut down for that moment. 

"What do you think, Detective?" he said when they parted.

His eyes dipped to John's mouth when he licked his lips. "Inconclusive," John said. "Gonna have to investigate further."

Matt grinned and leaned in again… which is when something extremely large and extremely heavy slammed into his side. He was dimly aware of John shouting something, and then he was flat on his back on the tile with the wind knocked out of him. "Hell of a fucking mouse," he wheezed.

"Claude, this is Matt," John said faintly somewhere up above him.

An extremely large head to match the extremely large body drifted into his field of vision. He made out a smashed in nose and wide-set brown eyes, a Neolithic brow wrinkled with concern. "Sorry, Matt," Claude said. "I thought you were a burglar, man!"

"Claude's an ex-Marine," John said.

"Hoo-rah," Matt answered feebly.

* * *

So maybe this date didn't turn out exactly the way he envisioned when he was sitting in his car.

He'd pictured low lighting and a private table in the corner, not Matt propped up in a booth surrounded by six pillows to ease his aching back. He'd figured on splurging on a bottle of good wine, not sticking to water in solidarity with the kid – who'd required a double Percocet chaser before the salad course.

But his lips still tingled and Matt had said there'd be a next time. Lasagna at home, he decided, where there were no mice, no former Marines, and definitely no lurking terrorists. Maybe he'd even throw _Jurassic Park_ into the ol' VCR. 

Smooth sailing next time. Absolutely.


End file.
